Sparring Session
by Sophisticus
Summary: Hawke is trying to practice; Fenris offers a helpful hand.


The sound of harsh breathing mingled with echoing thuds, the sound of Hawke's bare feet slapping against the carpet and tile. She leapt around the main room of her mansion, swinging around her makeshift staff as she fought her imaginary foes. Block, block, duck, swing, parry, downward strike. She paused for only one moment, her staff holding off a fierce blow from her invisible attacker, before she was off again in a flurry of movement.

So lost was she in her imaginary battle that she didn't hear her door creak open. She twirled around, whipping her staff through the air, only for it to come to a jarring halt halfway through. Hawke looked up, blinking in surprise, to find nobody other than Fenris his hand gripping the end of the staff to prevent it from striking him.

"Sparring alone doesn't give you much room to improve," he remarked dryly. Hawke huffed and pulled the staff from his grip, which he obligingly released.

"It's not like I have anybody willing to spar me," she replied. She wiped sweat from her brow, frowning. "Both Carver and Bethany are gone, Aveline's caught up in guard duty, and Anders is too busy running his clinic."

"What about the blood mage?"

"Merrill? I couldn't attack her, even in practice. It'd be like trying to hit a puppy with a staff!" Hawke exclaimed. Fenris raised one eyebrow in a perfect expression of skepticism. "Don't give me that look, you know it's true."

"And the reason for you not asking me is…?" he began, waving a hand.

Hawke scoffed. "The last time I asked you, you refused," she retorted.

"You were recovering from a sprained ankle. You needed rest, not practice."

Hawke let out a short laugh, causing Fenris to press his lips into a thin line. "Well I don't have a sprained ankle now," she pointed out, gesturing to the corner of the room, where a couple extra wooden staves leaned against the wall. "Care to join me? Unless you're chicken, of course."

If the taunt got to the elf, he didn't show it. Instead he began fiddling with the straps on his gauntlets, loosening them enough to pull them off and drop them on the table next to the stairwell. Next off was the leather strapping and his belt, leaving him in just his leggings and jerkin. He picked up a staff and hefted it, testing the weight and balance. "When you're ready," he called evenly.

Hawke held her staff up in response, and warily edged to the right. Fenris in turn moved to his right, and the two simply circled one another for a moment before Hawke moved.

She leapt forward, whipping the staff through the air at his head. He blocked the blow easily with one end of the staff before striking back with the other end. Hawke managed to block that, stepping back for a split second before leaping back to jab at the elf's exposed ribs. With nearly inhuman speed, he parried that and aimed a blow at her face, which she only dodged by jumping backwards.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the slapping of their feet on the ground, the clacking of their staves colliding, and their heavy breathing punctuated by the occasional grunt. Hawke had fought by Fenris' side dozens of times over, and he was absolutely a formidable warrior. She had a sneaking suspicion that the only reason she was holding her own so well, was because he was used to a greatsword rather than a staff.

By now, both of them were sweating. Both of their hair was plastered to their foreheads, and Hawke rapidly blinked away the sudden sting of sweat getting into her eyes. Fenris' staff struck hers with jarring force, and he leaned in until their faces were mere inches away. "Need a reprieve?" he offered, barely even sounding out of breath.

Despite the sudden knot in her stomach from the sudden proximity, Hawke gave him her best unimpressed sneer she could manage. "Tired already?" she taunted, shoving him back. She made no move to attack again, however, and the two lowered their staves after a long moment. "Two minutes?" she offered.

"That's fine."

Hawke gulped down some cold water, using the opportunity to examine Fenris from the corner of her eye. A flash of movement made her actually turn her head to look, just in time to see him finish unbuttoning his jerkin and tossing it on top of his gauntlets. Clad now in just his leggings, the light from the torch sconces glinted off the lyrium markings carved into his dark skin, swirling and crossing over his well-defined chest and arms in complicated patterns before disappearing down below the waistband of his leggings.

It took Hawke a moment to realize that she was staring, and she quickly busied herself brushing the hair out of her face. She picked up her staff again and turned to find Fenris already had his staff in hand. "Are you ready?" he asked. He gave a smirk; if he had noticed her staring, he didn't show it. Hawke hefted her staff defensively and nodded.

Their movements were even faster this time. Hawke hacked and slashed with as much speed and power as she could muster, and Fenris met her every blow. Now he was panting, sweat streaming down the sides of his face, as they roved all over the room. Hawke feinted as if to strike at his shoulder, but changed at the last possible instant to land a blow on the elf's ribs with a shout.

Fenris sucked in a breath but otherwise didn't show any sign of pain. He stepped back out of reach, then leapt high, bringing the staff down from above his head with a bellow on his lips. Hawke held her staff above her head to block, just barely making it before the blow jarred her arms all the way to the shoulders. She staggered, and Fenris gave her no mercy. He struck again, but this time when Hawke stepped back she was met with the cold stone of a wall. The staves clattered as Fenris pinned her staff against the wall above her head, and their harsh breaths mingled in the mere centimeters left between their faces.

Hawke arched her back instinctively away from the stone, which felt like ice against her flushed skin, only to find herself pressing against Fenris' body in turn. Despite her exertion, she once again found her stomach clenching from anxiety and, unexpectedly enough, arousal.

"If this were a real fight, you'd be dead," the elf mentioned almost casually. His pupils were blown wide open as he stared her down, likely from the dim lighting.

"Good thing you don't want to kill me," Hawke breathed.

"No, that's not what I want," he murmured in response. Despite the spar being over, he made no move to release her. If anything, he leaned closer.

The two had flirted plenty before, even as they came to know one another better and become more comfortable in one another's presence. This, however, felt vastly different than casual flirtation, and it made her blood tingle.

"Though, if you can't even beat me, how can you hope to defeat anybody else?" he teased. "It looks like I'll have to come spar you much more often." In an instant, Hawke's anxiety disappeared and she pinned him with a glare.

"You only won because you cheated," she accused. If her hands weren't pinned to the wall by her staff, she'd have jabbed a finger at his chest. "You know perfectly well that-"

Fenris' mouth suddenly crushed into hers, muffling the last of her sentence. For a moment it felt as if her heart skipped over a beat, before resuming in double time. She kissed him back, matching movement for movement, as he pressed himself against her even harder.

Sparring with Fenris was going to have to become a frequent thing, Hawke decided.


End file.
